


Room Service

by PCrabapple



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Collars, D/s, Dom/sub, Footplay, Incest, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Pet Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PCrabapple/pseuds/PCrabapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave comes home and discovers that Bro Wants To Play A Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room Service

**Author's Note:**

> I feel kind of crappy for just posting old stuff from tumblr and LJ, but I really like AO3, and it's so easy to keep all my work there. So here we go, a sort of lame thing I wrote half a year ago. I love this sort of Stridercest to the max and wish there was more of it.

You’re almost home. Almost to where you can relax and do nothing for the next two days, barring a puppet/sword ambush. There’s a test in AP Physics on Monday, but that’ll be a breeze, like it always is. You shift your heavy backpack on your shoulders as you walk down the hallway to the apartment, so ready to just get the fucker off you.. So close… You reach for the door, then stop short at what you find there, which throws your plans just slightly off the rails.

Looped around the doorknob is a tiny bowtie, one of Cal’s old spares. It’s a signal, and you know exactly what it means. Bro is in there, doing…that. Or getting ready to at least. You let out a breath, steeling yourself. You have to be in a certain frame of mind before you open the door. You slip the miniature silk accessory off the knob, telling yourself “i am the star. its me” 

You open the door carelessly, and it doesn’t take long to locate Bro. For once you’re not having to look up at him. He’s kneeling next to the doorway, hatless and shirtless, hands on his knees and eyes cast downwards. You shut the door and he takes it as cue to pick up the thick leather collar between his knees and raise it up over his head towards you in two hands, along with a small gold padlock. He’s already got the cuffs around his wrists, which is pretty thoughtful, saving you some time and effort. This step can’t be done by anyone but you though, and you take the collar out of his hands.

He sits up a bit so you don’t have to bend down, and you wind it around his neck. As you let your fingers linger against his warm skin, slightly damp with sweat, you can’t help but wonder how long he’s been sitting here like this, waiting for you. Especially since you stopped to dick around at the record shop on your way home. You wipe the guilt from your mind, focusing on tightening the collar. There’s a pang of pleasure as you hear the soft gasp from Bro’s mouth when you pull it tight to slip the metal prong into the last notch. The click of the lock as you push the shackle down into its home has a finality to it, a “where doing it man,” kind of vibe.

He finally raises his head to look up at you, and you know it’s a plea.You stare back down with your arms crossed, like you’re not sure he deserves it. But you oblige him finally, reaching out to grasp his sunglasses. He exhales heavily as your slide them off, fold them and tuck them safely on your shirt collar. Fuck, his eyes are crazy sexy, every time you see them it catches you off guard. 

He licks his lips in anticipation, and you sling your backpack off your shoulders, dropping it in front of him. Damn it feels good to get that thing off. Bro catches it before it hits the ground, nodding at you and shuffling off on his knees to deliver it to your room. You roll your shoulders while he’s gone, then head over to the futon, which is still unfolded for some reason. You stand by it and wait, even tapping your foot with mostly-mock impatience. When Bro comes back and sees the problem he grimaces, hurrying to correct it and lift the back up while still on his knees. 

When he’s done he turns back to you, looping his arms around one of your legs and begging for mercy by pressing his lips to your ankle. His mouth feels hot on your skin and you suppress a shiver. You want to give him the forgiveness he's asking for, tell him it’s cool, maybe make out with him a little. But he’ll never learn if you encourage that kind of carelessness. So you shake him off your leg, step over him to sit down on the righted futon, spreading out on it and finally fucking relaxing. 

Normally you’d be annoyed at yourself for sitting down without getting a drink first, but you don’t have to worry about that today. You snap your fingers and the Bro scurries to kneel in front of you. You raise your hand in a fist, the hand signal he’s learned for “apple juice.” He doesn’t look at it for a second before he’s bowing his head and scoots off to the kitchen. 

You turn on the television while you wait. It’s tuned to SpikeTV, a reminder of what your bro is normally like, a big douchey asshole who watches this shit. MANswers is currently airing so you change the channel to something mildly bearable. The Knife Show is playing on the Home Shopping Network so you turn down the volume, wondering if Bro can keep his role in tact without getting distracted and giving in to his compulsion to purchase yet another piece of shit sword.

Speaking of Bro, he’s back with the apple juice, sitting back on his knees and uncapping it for you with an ease that reminds you just how fucking strong he is. He hands it to you, head bowed in deference yet again and you take it, letting your fingers brush against each other. He seems to shudder at this, and you let a smirk pass your face. He’s so fucking open when he’s like this. It’s absolutely alien, but you can’t help but like it. You savor being in charge for a little while like you savor the ice cold applejuice after a hot as hell day.

You raise one of your feet and he is quick to put his hands on either side, gently caressing your ankle. He unties the laces carefully, making sure they’re loose enough to not cause a millisecond of discomfort when he pulls the Converse off. It feels fucking fantastic to get it off and you lean back on the futon, shutting your eyes and lifting the other foot as he places the first back on the floor. The process is repeated and soon you’re fighting the urge to wiggle your toes in their new found freedom.

Instead you keep the foot raised, place it on his shoulder. You look for any sign of a grimace as your sweaty socks come in contact with his skin, but there is none, he just gets on all fours in front of you and moves so you can put your other foot up as well, his head between your bent knees.

You stay like this for awhile, just chilling and watching a mute parade of terrible cutlery pass on the screen. You run one of your toes against the collar, feeling the contrast between it and Bro’s skin. After about 10 minutes of unwinding, a glance downward shows the man giving you another pleading look. You stare at him sternly, long and hard, as you continue to press against his neck with your foot. Finally you figure he’s earned it. The sitting and waiting before you got home makes up for not having the futon ready.

You set your apple juice on the arm of the futon and raise your hand in another fist, with a key difference. This time your thumb is slightly crossed over your knuckles, indicating the sign for “S.” Bro springs into action, mindful not to dislodge your feet as he loops his arms around the outsides of your thighs, hands going to your fly. You’re already hard thanks to 10 minutes of furtive glances at his toned form, collared and bent under your heels. The contact as he presses a hand to your boxers is a relief and you sigh. Before you put your hands behind your head to relax you bend down to connect the metal rings between his cuffs, making it impossible to pull away from you without you obliging and closing your legs. 

You watch as he pulls your erection out of the slit in the front of your underwear, a task made just a bit more difficult by his attached hands. He manages it like a pro, of course, and then just sits there, looking at your dick as he holds it in his hand. The picture of him holding your cock, with his wrists wrapped in heavy black shackled leather, locked around you, is too perfect. But you can't let him just sit there and stare.

You make an annoyed “tsk” sound and he actually fucking blushes, and dips his head to take you in his mouth. You have to shut your eyes tight and clench your teeth to keep from moaning as you’re engulfed by Bro's mouth. It feels so fucking good already, you can hardly stand it. You have to last though, show you deserve this spot on top. So you stare ahead at the knives on tv, trying to ignore the wetness around your cock, the slurping and gagging sounds the bastard is making.. 

It’s so damn difficult, but you keep your cool, letting your feet move from his shoulders and slide down his back, stretching your legs out and relaxing even more. All the tension in your body is gone, even the bits that like to hang around and make you wonder if you’re a good enough master. You push down on the back of his head, tangling your fingers in that fair hair, controlling the pace, forcing him to slow down. He looks up at you and you can’t fucking stand it, your mouth falls open and your breaths escape in shallow gasps. 

Finally you pull him off completely, take yourself in your hand instead and pump, staring down at Bro’s still open mouth, at his tongue reaching out to try to get another lick in. You don’t last five strokes before you’re coming, unable to stifle a tiny squeak as you let loose in your palm. You drop your head against the back of the futon and just bask for a bit, letting your hand fall open in front of your Bro for him to lap up. A stupid grin sneaks onto your face as you gaze unseeing at the ceiling, feeling him take your wrist in his hands and lick you clean. Goddamn.

He puts you away, zipping your pants up good as new, than watches you, begging for approval. You don’t hesitate this time, but take your feet off him, slide your legs out of the loop of his locked arms, and lean down to grab his chin, kissing him softly. He moans into your mouth as your tongues meet, bitter semen and sweet applejuice mixing together. It makes you want to go again. In awhile.

You lean back again and exhale contentedly, while he nuzzles against your thigh. It’s with an almost heavy heart that you reach into your pocket for the key to the padlock on his collar.

“Hey wait.” You stop. Bro’s voice is hoarse, like it always is after he hasn’t spoken for awhile. “Not yet.” You raise an eyebrow..

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah man. Let’s go all weekend.”

“You sure you can handle it?” You’ve never done this for more than an hour or so at a time. The notion is almost daunting, but you can’t deny that it’s turning you on again, him being in your control for two and a half days.

“Please, dude. ‘Submission’ is my middle name.” You feel a bit of the old routine leaking through. It’s just as welcome as the blowjob, assuring you that it’s still Bro amidst all this docility and compliance.

“Yeah,” you shrug, as if you could or could not go for being waited on hand and foot and dick for the next few days, “Well let’s see who’s bawling the safeword halfway through Saturday.”

“Challenge accepted. Nothing remotely resembling ‘Deep Impact’ is gonna cross my lips. And no, just now doesn’t count, smartass.”

“Shut the fuck up and get over here.” You point to the futon next to you. His mouth snaps shut and he crawls up onto the seat with you. You can see his erection straining at his jeans as he does so, but you know it can wait. 

He folds his knees so his long-ass legs can fit and places his head in your lap. You give him the remote and wind your fingers through his hair. Your other hand finds the collar, running your skin against it absently and tapping Bro’s throat when you want him to change the channel between sips of of applejuice.

You can't think of a better way to start your weekend.


End file.
